To Satiate Desire
by Kitarin
Summary: Tir angsting over Souleater, rated as so for violent content.


  


**To Satiate Desire**  


It wrenches me violently from an almost pleasant dream, and I convulse in my bed, my legs tangled in the sheets, scrambling to free myself of anything confining, cold sweat beading upon my forehead and sliding ever so chillingly down my spine. 

Kicking the white linen aside I reach for the hem of my shirt, tearing it in my haste as I rip it off and toss it to the ground. The breeches are next, even as I am stumbling to the window, throwing it open to the midnight. I am ever as grateful that my window is so high that no one ever notices these nights that I toss it open with a clatter... no one except Gremio, I'm sure, and possibly Flik or Viktor, as I've seen them patrolling the castle grounds at the strangest hours, sometimes alone, often together. 

There is no one in sight now though, and the stars sparkle silent concern upon my face as the moon sheds her solemn light. The breeze wafts off the ocean, suffusing my senses with its salty life and I gasp for the air, the stone of the window ledge cold beneath one hand as I grip it so tightly it's sure to chafe my fingers. 

My eyes are drawn to the back of my other hand, and even hidden beneath the soft black leather, I can sense it taunting me. I need no words, no sound and no sight, to heed it's summons. 

"Damn you..." 

And who am I damning? The voices of my friends within? Odessa, Ted, my father... would it disturb Gremio to know that I still hear his captured soul within, though he now remains unknowing and ever faithful by my side? Gremio, dear Gremio... Did you bring him back just to taunt me further with that which can never be mine? 

I have taken Odessa' place, I have made my father proud, I have given Ted peace... but did you return Gremio to me because I had not yet done right by him? 

Who would have thought that you should have a conscience? 

And yet, who do I speak to, who do I summon? There is no God that has crafted this curse, no mortal being I could blame... there is no one and nothing, and perhaps that is the most damning part of all. 

There will never be release unless by the hands of some other unfortunate soul. 

And I will never let that happen. 

With trembling hand I slide the glove off, letting it slip to the floor, and the golden glimmer seems to ripple in anticipation. My body convulses again, I fight, I win, momentarily. Stumbling to the table beside my bed, I yank the drawer open, searching blindly beneath the papers and dried flower petals. 

My hands closes around the cold metal, drawing it out, and I collapse on the floor in the shaft of moonlight. The blade is clenched tightly in one hand, and I lay the other, the cursed, flat and palm up upon my leg. So many times now have I followed this course that it is almost second nature. 

A flick of my wrist and the scarred palm around the rune slides open again. I watch with weary eyes as the blood beads up crimson. I should have cut deeper, but I hesitate, watching, waiting... 

A strand of my hair slips lose from its tie, falling over my shoulder as the first drop of blood hits the mark. Is it my imagination or do you sizzle in the alabaster shadows? 

I take the blade again, deeper, dropping it to the floor with a clatter, my free hand now gripping the wrist of the wounded one. I am doubled over in pain again, but I am unable to discern its actual source. 

The rune is drinking of my blood, stained with that crimson... "Drown..." I gasp out. 

It never does, and it never ends... the desire awakens again and again... and yet I find if I let it eat my own pain, my own blood, my own being, that which it keeps alive to keep it alive... the curse is satiated. 

I am lost in a neverending cycle of desturction and renewal, my own fuel and my own destruction. 

Who could ever love such a soul? 

It no wonder to me at all now how and why Ted spent 300 years alone. 

By the time the blood dries, flaking off and scattering in the sea breeze, I am curled on my side at the edge of the rug. Sheer force of will drives me staggering to my feet. I will not let anyone find me like this, especially Gremio. 

I snatch the glove from the floor, slipping it back on again, flexing my hand as I grit my teeth. 

At least the pain I feel now is the physical sort, real and tangible... And as long as I have control over that, I can satiate its desire... 


End file.
